


Worship

by Cawaiiey



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Body Worship, M/M, Minor Praise Kink, Oral Sex, also HEAVY ON THE RELIGIOUS STUFF, ask to tag, idolatry, kinktober fill, okay this got way outta hand, religious allusions, so like tw beforehand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-14
Updated: 2016-10-14
Packaged: 2018-08-22 08:02:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8278655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cawaiiey/pseuds/Cawaiiey
Summary: He’s never been very religious. Raised Catholic, to worship God in all his glory, but he’d quickly rejected the presumed image of this deity. No reason to believe in a God that lets so many bad things happen in the world. Jesse McCree doesn’t believe in white robes or angelic choirs, in halos and wings of blinding hues, no, he doesn’t think that the God everyone speaks of is real. He’s more convinced that there’s a being that spins their fate and they’re destined to walk the path, however hard it is. If there's one thing he believes in, it's sin. And there's been plenty of angels in his life that have helped him to absolve his sins. Hanzo Shimada is one of them.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A kinktober prompt!! I WENT TOO FAR, also TW for massive religious allusions. This is straight up body worship, like, lit nothing less.

He’s never been very religious. Raised Catholic, to worship God in all his glory, but he’d quickly rejected the presumed image of this deity. No reason to believe in a God that lets so many bad things happen in the world. Jesse McCree doesn’t believe in white robes or angelic choirs, in halos and wings of blinding hues, no, he doesn’t think that the God everyone speaks of is real. He’s more convinced that there’s a being that spins their fate and they’re destined to walk the path, however hard it is.

If there’s one thing that he does believe in, it’s sin, and he’s got enough of that for ten lifetimes. Every person he’d put a bullet into, every shot he’d thrown back, the blood on his hands, the lust in his gut; it’s all amassed into a mess of writhing, coiling, black sin that hangs over him in a nightmarish way. McCree remembers the look in the eyes of the people he’s killed. He remembers the feel of feverish skin under his palms, of breathy moans in the dim of dingy hotel rooms. He remembers every finger he’s drank down like a parched man in the desert, every drop of burning liqueur he’s imbibed. He can’t shake them off of him, and he’s been working his whole life to atone for it, all of it.

Blackwatch had helped. Gabriel was a fallen angel who found him at his lowest, and offered him two paths, a fork in the road that Jesse was walking; either spend the rest of his life in purgatory (prison didn’t seem like Hell, and it certainly wasn’t Heaven, just a middle ground, hanging in the between), or actively pursue some form of redemption. And Jesse had looked at him, in all his commanding glory, seen the figurative dark wings behind his back in the dim of the interrogation room, and he swore that his guardian angel was right there in front of him, trying to get him to realize what he should do.

He chose redemption, and started down the path of atonement.

McCree still killed men and imbibed liquor and succumbed to lust; he was only a man, only human, but there was purpose behind every action. Each person he killed, he killed for a reason. Every drop of alcohol was for celebration, and it was drank down like a prayer on his lips. And every time he found himself in the throes of passion, he did so with the noises they made echoing off the walls like a sermon. Fate carried him down the path, following after Gabriel Reyes, letting him lead the way.

When Blackwatch and Overwatch crumbled around him, like the gates of Heaven crashing down, McCree fled, leaving Gabriel in the ruins, dead to the world, along with Jack Morrison. Two beings made of pure light, titans, angels, declared deceased. Didn’t seem possible. Not when he held Gabriel on such a pedestal, looked up to him, regarded him as a mentor- a father figure. And Jack, in his blond-haired, blue-eyed brilliance, looked every part the stereotypical angel, and now he was dead too. Jesse turned his back on the organization that had led him towards atonement, and found a way to repent himself.

Mercenary work was easy to come by. Easier to do, most of the time. And he did things with a purpose, he didn’t take a job if it was something as simple as a hit on someone who had done no wrong. Years passed. Blood was spilt. Liquor was imbibed. Lust was sated. Time hardened Jesse McCree into a dangerous man, albeit sentimental.

Sentimental feelings are what brought him back to Overwatch, when Winston sent out the recall. When he showed up on the Gibraltar base, with more wrinkles and scars and less intact limbs (and less sin too; less of a heart bogged down by regrets from his Deadlock days), he hadn’t expected to be welcomed with such open arms. Big bounty will do that to a man’s sense of trust, especially when damn near everything and everyone was trying to turn him in. The posters said “Dead or Alive” but, damn, seemed like everyone conveniently forgot the last part, as his death was all they were after.

Overwatch was different. He’d shown with barely a rucksack of his belongings, the clothes on his back and the hat on his head, and his Peacekeeper holstered on his side. Winston was the first person he sought out, to announce he was rejoining Overwatch. He hadn’t finished atoning when the entire thing had gone to shit. Then it was Lena and Mercy, both of which he scooped up into a tight hug. They teased him, chided him on his lack of cleanliness, on the tumbleweed scruff on his jaw, but he knew better. They were happy to see him. Years of being hardened melted away with the platonic love he found in the halls of Gibraltar, with Fareeha and Reinhardt, with Torbjorn and Mei. All these people acted like it’d barely been a year since they last saw each other, falling into a comfortable and easy rapport. McCree felt like he had a home, for the first time in a long time.

Genji was a surprise to see. He came back with an omnic named Zenyatta in tow, someone he called “Master”, and Jesse had been happy to see his old friend, in all his shiny chrome and neon green. The minute they’d got a chance, they caught up. He told McCree how he’d been taught forgiveness by Zenyatta, how he’d found his brother and offered that forgiveness, and gotten a bitter rebuttal in return. Jesse shook his head and tsk-ed, knowing how hard it must have been for Genji to muster up the courage and work through what that brother of his did all those years ago. The cyborg didn’t seem too bothered by it, however, as he told McCree how he’d offered his brother the chance to join them in Overwatch, if he truly did want to seek his own redemption, in the form of pursuing justice with a group of rag tag heroes.

Redemption. Atonement. Finding it in Overwatch. All sounded mighty familiar.

When the elder Shimada brother showed up on Gibraltar, Genji had been pleasantly surprised and excited to introduce his brother to everyone. Hanzo was his name. The agents had all been called to the flight deck to greet him on the carrier he was brought on. Jesse hung back, avoiding all the hype for the time being; Genji would introduce him to Hanzo soon enough, and it’d be a little more personal than a mass of people all clamoring to get a look at the new member.

Genji didn’t surprise him when he showed up at McCree’s door. He answered it with a gruff ‘howdy’, to which Genji responded by saying that he’d like him to meet his brother. McCree cocked a brow, chewing on the end of his cigarillo, because there was no one around other than his cyborg friend. Genji jerked his head to the side, a sign of ‘come with me’, and McCree followed, his spurs jingling in the quiet hall, as Genji led him in the direction of the mess hall.

It was later in the evening, past time for dinner. The moon hung low in the sky, a mere sliver against the background of twilight. He breathed in the crisp ocean air of the Alboran sea, letting the scent wash over him. Different from the desert, from Santa Fe, where the dust in the air settled in his lungs with every inhale. Didn’t know which one he liked better; familiarity or something different, something new.

Genji was saying something from where he stood in the entryway of the mess hall. His words weren’t decipherable, at least, not to Jesse. Never picked up on Japanese, not even with all the time he spent around Genji way back when. The talking stopped and Genji turned to McCree, his metallic voice introducing his brother as he stepped back from the entryway.

“This is my brother. Hanzo Shimada.”

He’s never been very religious. Seen a lot of angels in his lifetime, though, with names of Ana and Jack and Gabriel and Angela, and every one of them had a pair of wings on their back or a glow on their skin, and Jesse had just known. He’d  _ known _ . And he had looked up to and followed so many of them. He’d seen so many angels before. And the one that just walked through the door of the mess hall, with his head tilted up, and a chunk of his bangs slightly obscuring one eye, is undoubtedly the most angelic he’d ever seen.

The elder Shimada was thicker than Genji, more built, and he carried himself with such a regal air that McCree felt ashamed for not falling to his knees in reverence when he had made his presence know. He was shorter than McCree by a good head, but it did nothing to diminish the haughty air that he had. Jesse drank in the sight of Hanzo Shimada, a parched man in the desert seeking salvation. And Hanzo does not give it to him, with only a cursory glance over his figure and a stilted bow as recognition of his presence. McCree returns the bow, unable to keep his eyes off of his best friend’s older brother. An angel. McCree wants to find redemption in his arms, in the curve of his lips, in the sharp cut of his cheekbones. He wants to sink to his knees and pray a thousand times with the other man’s name on his tongue, to beg for forgiveness with his fingertips on Hanzo’s thighs, and accept the body of an angel into his mouth, to saturate himself in the other’s presence. He wonders if the elder Shimada knows what he’s doing to Jesse.

There’s a glint in his eyes that McCree notices.

Hanzo knows.

It takes a few days of silence, but Hanzo steadily begins to open himself up to the other members of Overwatch, unfurling his figurative wings for everyone to see, and Jesse imagines they are such a brilliant white that they’re a pale blue. He spends time with the Japanese man, learning about him, getting to know him, and every minute spent with him is more convincing that he is, in fact, the heavenly being that Jesse pegged him as from the beginning. From the way the moonlight highlights his cheekbones, to the way sweat trickles down his arms and chest in droplets in such a tantalizing way that Jesse is jealous of them for having the pleasure of being on his skin.

McCree wonders how he can be the one who gets Hanzo to laugh the first time, for him to throw his head back and expose the column of his pale throat to Jesse’s eyes, and to guffaw up to the ceiling, laughter shaking his broad shoulders with every gasping inhale. The sound washes over him in waves of purity, abolishing his sins, and McCree finds himself  _ wanting _ so much. Wanting Hanzo. Needing him to deliver him to Heaven’s doorstep as a changed man, a man who found God, and that God was named Hanzo Shimada.

They became closer, closer, closer, ever closer, until a night where McCree finds himself sipping on bitter liquor with Hanzo by his side, their only audience was the moon in the sky and the stars haphazardly scattered like salt crystals in the universe above them. Maybe it was the whiskey on his tongue, or the tired feeling in his bones, or the way Hanzo’s smile looked in the moonlight, but, whatever the reason was, he found himself reaching for the man and threading his fingers through his hair. He got a smirk in return, and that glint was in his eyes, and he knows that Hanzo knows. Hanzo knows, and he encircles McCree’s soft waist with his arms, loosely holding him, but inviting him forward all the same. The soft sound of his inquisitive hum, and the way he tilts his head up to look McCree in the eyes, causes a waterfall of desire to well up inside of him, spilling out of his mouth in the form of desperate words.

“I want to worship you,” Jesse says, breathy, reverential. Hanzo smiles a bit wider, interest shining in his eyes, or maybe that’s the starlight, and Jesse continues his plea, “want to treat ya real nice. Please, Shimada-san.”

“Call me Hanzo,” he says, and Jesse nods fervently. Anything. Everything. For him. “And, if you are so eager, McCree, then show me. Do not let your words be empty promises.” Hanzo reaches up and brushes his fingers along the scruff on McCree’s jaw, and he shudders under the brief, teasing touch. Hanzo knows. He knows.

Jesse nods once more, eager to atone, as he grabs Hanzo’s hand and starts to lead them out of the kitchen. He leaves his empty tumbler there, and the open bottle of whiskey. He wouldn’t bother wasting time, not when his angel was indulging his sinful desires as such. The kitchen, the moon, the stars; none were an audience that should see his depraved desires. Hanzo follows him, the click of his prosthetic toes echoing softly in the hallways, until Jesse reaches his room.

The door sighs as it opens, as if knowing that it’s in the presence of a heavenly being. Hanzo drops his hand from Jesse’s and, for a fleeting, terrifying moment, Jesse thinks he’ll leave. But then he walks forward, into the dark room, and heads over to the bed. McCree watches him through wide eyes, watches the slight wave of his hair ribbon that moves with every step, and the long tails of his blue sash that keeps his kyudo-gi from falling down. In the moonlight, he shimmers with every movement, and his eyes are surprisingly bright when he turns his head to look over his shoulder at McCree, who is standing in the doorway still. Even in the dim, he can see the way Hanzo’s lips pull into a smirk. He knows. Gods above and below, he knows.

Jesse doesn’t waste another second as he steps into the room, the door sighing shut behind him. He throws his shoes off, the jingle of the spurs horrendously loud in the otherwise quiet room. Hanzo perches on the edge of the bed, leaning back on his hands, watching McCree through hooded eyes.

Judgement.

He only hopes he can prove himself worthy.

He tugs his socks off next, tossing them in the same direction, and rushes over to fall to his knees in front of Hanzo. He doesn’t bother removing any other clothes; this isn’t about him. The focus is only on the angel that has taken pity on him, that is entertaining his debased thoughts with no more than a silent appraisal in his eyes. Determining if he’s worthy of Heaven. Jesse wants nothing more.

“Do not disappoint me, cowboy,” Hanzo says darkly, extending one foot out for Jesse to take, and he does so with hands that shake much more than they should. He keeps his prosthetic hand stagnant, just keeping the metal calf elevated, while the flesh one drags down the other’s carbon-fiber skin. He traces the grooves in the plating, along the curve of his calf, down to the metal heel, and up to the plated toes. Reverential. Slow. And he knows that Hanzo can’t feel the touches, but he’s watching him. Likely imagining how it would feel on his flesh. Jesse knows that desire, that fantasy, that need. He won’t deny him the pleasure of watching someone appreciate all of him, even the parts that weren’t flesh and blood and bone anymore. It didn’t matter what he was made off. Everything was otherworldly and celestial when it came to Hanzo.

Jesse dips his head down to kiss at Hanzo’s metal toes, pressing his lips against the cool surface. Hanzo makes a noise of appreciation, pleased with his piety, and Jesse feels abolished of his past for a moment. He makes a trail of kisses up Hanzo’s metal calf, littering praise on the carbon-fiber, until he reaches the hem of his pants. Hanzo drops that foot and extends the other, which Jesse takes as a blessing, performing the same ritual to that appendage. His angel drops his foot for the second time and extends his hand instead, wiggling the digits in McCree’s face. He chances a look at Hanzo’s expression. It’s colored with amusement, as though he could not believe that this cowboy would prostrate himself in front of him, as if he wasn’t aware. As if he didn’t know. He knows.

McCree thanks whatever deity out there sent him Hanzo, as he takes the proffered hand, calloused fingertips stroking the back of the other’s hand. He traces the inked swirling lines of the dragon, finding refuge in the open maw that threatens to swallow Hanzo’s hand. Stagnant blue ink etched into pale skin. But McCree’s seen it move before, seen the ink swirl and bite and fly out of Hanzo’s bow to wreak havoc on any that would dare to stand in its path. He feels the danger under his fingertips. He feels the energy.

Jesse flips his hand over, calloused palm up, and traces his flesh fingers down the hardened skin to Hanzo’s fingertips, which are rough with blisters healed over, a tell-tale sign of his devotion to archery. He bends his head down to press a kiss to the man’s pinkie, chapped lips meeting calloused fingertips. Hanzo takes in a breath, a shuddery noise, and Jesse doesn’t dare look up like he wants to. He hasn’t finished his prayer. He presses his lips to the other’s ring finger, then his middle, going down the line until he’s been blessed by all five digits. Dragging his lips up to the other’s palm, he chances a look up at Hanzo, and is delighted to see his skin has darkened in the dim, and he’s worrying his lower lip with his teeth. Jesse shuts his eyes, but the image is burned into his eyelids, a scene he’ll never forget.

His lips tremble as he kisses up from palm to wrist, finding purchase along the tattooed skin, solace in the stagnant clouds. His skin feels electric under the slide of his mouth, as he inches up, pressing chaste kisses to every inch of skin he can reach. When he’s done with the underside, he goes back down the other’s forearm, and starts over again, starting with his knuckles. Reverential, the way he devotes himself to Hanzo, in his every movement. He kisses up to Hanzo’s elbow and stops, tilting his head up to see what his piety has earned him.

The reward in front of him is Hanzo, whose cheeks rival the hue of red roses, whose eyes are half-hooded, and whose mouth is covered by his other hand. Jesse realizes that he’s not the only one trembling right now; Hanzo is shaking in his hold. McCree stares, wonder in his gaze, as Hanzo’s eyes slip closed. He has to strain to hear him when he speaks, voice hushed, broken, and he hears the familiar rasp of desire in his tone.

“Are you done?” He asks, as if he was admonishing McCree. The venom behind it lacks poison, half-hearted, covering up what McCree can hear. Desperation. Desire. Need. Needing Jesse.

And here he thought he was the only one that was chasing redemption.

“Never,” he answers, and there’s wonder in his smoke-addled voice, that the archer shudders at. Hanzo’s eyes open to meet his. Jesse sucks in a breath, shuffling back from his arm to slide himself in between the other’s legs, which spread to accommodate his mass, parting like the Red Sea. Hanzo drops his hand down from his lips, the bottom one is bitten and slick with spit, and Jesse wonders if he could be saved with nothing more than a kiss. He raises his hands up to cup Hanzo’s face. He stops before their skin touches, hovering over him, a question.

Hanzo leans into his palm, a shuddery breath spilling over his wrist.

An answer.

Jesse cups the archer’s face, sitting up on his knees. They’re face to face, and Jesse can see the way those pupils are threatening to swallow up Hanzo’s iris, either with lust or because of the dim room, Jesse’s not sure. He hopes it’s the former, that he’s managed to catch the eye of an angel, that he’s not alone in the fire that’s started in his gut. A small thing that threatens to overtake him, to grow into a forest fire, to burn him down to ash if he fans the embers too much. And the smoldering look that Hanzo has in his eyes doesn’t help to quell the flames. He brushes his thumbs along his high cheek bones in devout appreciation. Hanzo’s eyes flutter shut, and his mouth drops open. An invitation?

“Jesse, please,” he breathes out, soft, pleading.

He can’t deny an angel, not even if he wanted to, and, God, he doesn’t.

Jesse nods, though Hanzo can’t see him, and leans forward. Their lips brush, barely there pressure, until the archer surges forward, closing the scarce distance between them. Jesse makes a noise in the back of his throat as a warm mouth covers his, and he turns to slot their lips together. Reverential, he drags his hands down Hanzo’s face to his neck, then along his shoulders. He slides his hand underneath the sleeve of his kyudo-gi, the other settling on his shoulder and rubbing sparks into the electrified ink of his tattooed skin. Jesse keeps their kiss chaste, innocent, pure, though Hanzo is making wanton noises that suggest anything but. It kicks the flames in his stomach into a frenzy, searing him from the inside out with hellfire.

An angel with the power to set Jesse ablaze. He couldn’t think of a better way to go.

Hanzo sits up straighter, and Jesse can feel the man start to reach for the knot that holds his blue sash in place. He pulls back, away from Hanzo’s lips, and the desperate sound that the archer makes has Jesse feeling guilty that he dared to slight a heavenly person in such a way. He doesn’t part far, though, keeping their foreheads pressed together, while his hand drops down to gently push Hanzo’s away. He feels his brows furrow against his skin, inquisitive, the hitch in his breath signaling an incoming question that Hanzo doesn’t have to voice.

“Let me,” he says, just as soft and breathy as Hanzo’s voice was a moment ago. He deftly undoes the knot, and the sudden lack of support has the one sleeve that Hanzo does have on fall slightly on his shoulder, exposing more of his pectorals. Jesse pushes at the sleeve, genty, and the archer lets it fall off his shoulder, baring himself. He doesn’t wait for Jesse to try and remove the sleeve the rest of the way, as he pulls his hand up and out of it. However, he does wait for McCree to remove the sash completely, and to pull the kyudo-gi off the rest of the way, leaving Hanzo on the bed topless. Jesse folds the angel’s robes and sets them off to the side, fingers lingering on the silk for a moment. Nothing but the best for celestial beings. No wonder why he always sparkled in the light.

He turns back to the archer, who is staring at him, a smile playing on his lips. Jesse doesn’t question it, knowing he’s blessed to even have the opportunity to touch Hanzo like this, to even bask in his presence. He brings his hands up, and they tremble, and he shakes when they connect with Hanzo’s chest. Jesse breathes out a sigh, dropping his head forward to rest on Hanzo’s pectorals. He hears the sharp intake of breath, feels the hands that card through his unruly locks that always seem to smell of cigar smoke, and his eyes squeeze shut to combat the tears the prick at the corners of his eyes.

Too much, too much blessing for a sinner like him, for a man who has killed like he has, has stolen and betrayed and broken every commandment in the God damn book, it’s too much and not enough. He wants, he wants, he wants. He needs Hanzo. He’d seen his salvation bathed in moonlight, seen him amongst the bodies of the people that they’d slain, seen Hanzo descend on enemies like a warrior angel, and left bloodshed in his wake. And he’s also seen him around the base, laughing merrily, acting silly, playing video games with the younger agents and meditating in the early dawn light, and he is every bit as heavenly as both extremes, and everything in between.

Hanzo strokes his hair, patient, waiting. Jesse does not keep him in wait for long, as he tips his head forward and presses his lips to the other’s abdomen. He hears his breath catch in his throat, and his muscles twitch under his mouth, and Jesse continues on, pressing kisses to each mountain, to every valley. His skin is so warm. It shudders with every kiss Jesse gives, blessings in the form of his reactions, absolving the cowboy of his sins. Pleading touches trace along his shoulders, Hanzo grabs at him, and his voice breaks the silence in the room.

“What are you thinking of, Jesse?” Hanzo asks, his fingernails digging crescent moons into Jesse’s skin, marked with celestial bodies that are far too good for the cowboy. He exhales, breath washing over Hanzo’s stomach. The other man lets out a soft chuckle, his abdomen spasming slightly. McCree wonders if he knows his laughter sounds like church bells ringing. His hands press at his shoulders, moving to lay on his back, palms down and spread and warm, calloused skin catching on the scars he has scattered here and there across his back. They heal with every touch.

“You,” he finally whispers, hushed, desperate; a prayer against his skin that he does not part from. McCree continues to kiss at his chest, traveling up from the waistband of his pants to his pectorals. Hanzo grumbles slightly in the back of his throat, though the sound morphs into a soft moan when McCree begins to trace his pectorals with his lips, avoiding the dusky pebbled nubs that demand his attention. Not yet.

“Tell me more,” Hanzo says, letting his fingers dance along a particular scar on Jesse’s left shoulder. Phantom pain fades away with every touch of his calloused fingertips, absolving, healing, blessing. McCree would give him anything, everything, as long as it meant that Hanzo would still continue to save him.

Without parting from the overheated, painted pink skin below his mouth, he speaks, in between desperate, pious kisses, voice nothing more than a prayer into the night, with God and his angel as his witnesses. “I’m thinking of you,” he murmurs, as he finally presses his lips to one of Hanzo’s nipples, a barely there brush that still has the archer sucking in a breath, “of how beautiful you are,” he itches to suction his lips around the dusky nub but he resists, simply moving over to kiss the other, before he continues his journey upward, along his cleavage and to the hollow of his neck. He gives in to the desire to dip his tongue into indentation. The way Hanzo tilts his head up, exposing his neck, granting him repentance for any transgression he’d ever made, has Jesse’s breathing stuttering once more.  _ Blessed be _ .

Now that he’s started, he can’t stop. The floodgates are open, and he lets praise waterfall out of his lips, baptizing Hanzo with every word. He feels feverish desire beg him to speed up his ministrations. He fights his lust, blazing a trail of open-mouthed kisses up the alabaster column of Hanzo’s neck, as his voice spills out in harried compliments, “yer gorgeous, God, yer strong and kind and good,  _ so good,  _ Hanzo, Hanzo,  _ Hanzo _ ,” he wants to suck a bruise into the skin below his jawline, to mark an angel like Cain, sully him, drag him down into the muck. He resists, biting gently at the other’s earlobe instead, and reveling in the low keen that he gets in return. He’d gladly listen to a thousand sermons, if Hanzo was the one giving them, and all they were composed of were the noises he made when he was under Jesse’s lips, hands, teeth, and tongue.

“Jesse McCree,” Hanzo says, and it sounds like he’s calling his name, Saint Peter at the gates of heaven, the time of judgement is upon him, and he only hopes he’s proved himself worthy, “kiss me, please, please.”  _ Worthy _ indeed, deserving of an angel’s touch, of his kiss, of his love.

Jesse wouldn’t even think of denying him.

He finds solace in the seam of his lips, that part willingly under his mouth. All pretense flies out the window when Hanzo’s tongue presses forward, seeking his own, looking to further burn Jesse down to bone and ash. He makes a noise of desperation in the back of his throat, parting his lips for Hanzo as though he was Moses, and accepts the probing tongue into his mouth. It teases his into action, and soon, they’re entangled, rubbing against each other, sending delicious sparks of arousal up Jesse’s spine like a livewire. Hanzo is making noises that Jesse swallows down greedily, drinking it down like the blood of Christ, whilst the fire in his insides burns ever hotter, equal parts of Heaven and Hell.

McCree’s hands rest on the archer’s waist, so close to the waistband of his pants, but he makes no move to dispose of the garment. There’s no rush here, not when Hanzo is gently sucking on his tongue, scraping his teeth along the muscle, moaning wantonly into his mouth. Jesse parts from him for only a moment, taking in a gasping breath, before he’s plunging back in. Hanzo accepts him readily, willingly, his hands starting fires in their wake as they cup the back of his neck, grab at his arm, skin searing underneath his grip. Jesse can’t help but pull him closer, wrapping his arms tightly around that waist, melding their bodies together so closely in hopes that he would become holy. Hanzo reciprocates with his arms twined around Jesse’s shoulders, his legs around his waist, kissing so deeply that McCree wonders if he’ll ever be able to feel whole again without Hanzo.

“Come here,” Hanzo rasps out when he pulls back to drag in ragged breaths. Jesse can’t possibly get any closer, but God, will he try. He struggles to get off of his knees, especially with Hanzo peppering kisses to his neck, littering the rough skin with tiny blessings that Jesse will think about in the morning, when they’re bathed in the dawn’s early light, and he has to face Hanzo without the liquor surging in his veins. McCree manages to scoot the archer further back on the bed, far enough that the cot will accommodate both of them, but he barely has a second to adjust himself when Hanzo yanks them both down, hitting the bed with a soft ‘thump’. Jesse pushes himself up onto his forearms, breath catching at the sight in front of him.

With only the moon highlighting his features, kissing the peaks of his face, Hanzo looks nothing less than ethereal. His hair has come loose from the gold silk ribbon that keeps it up, and it spreads around him on the bed in a smoky halo of salt-and-pepper strands. He’s smiling, lips drawn into the softest smile that Jesse has ever seen on him, his well-kept goatee bracketing the expression. Those chocolate eyes that he melts under are twinkling with warmth, the very stars stolen from the night sky and spread haphazardly in the pools that Jesse desires to baptize himself in. He reaches out his flesh hand, shaking, and hovers it over Hanzo’s cheek.

The archer turns his head, kisses his palm, nuzzles into the rough hand, eyes shut. Jesse bites back a sob. Acceptance, despite his sins and his past and every horrible thing he’s ever done- some of which is etched permanently into his skin, a reminder, a curse, marked- Hanzo is still accepting him. Every bit of him. Atonement is easy to find in the arms of an angel.

Hanzo peeks at him with one eye, that smile still dancing on his lips, and Jesse can’t stand it anymore. He drops his head down to steal those lips for his own, soft, slow, sweeter than honeysuckle, and Hanzo accepts greedily. McCree burns a path down from the other’s mouth to his chin, along the sharp cut of his jawline, down the column of his neck, down, down, down. Every place he kisses pulls soft noises from Hanzo’s throat, of appreciation and joy and pleasure. Jesse continues to whisper praise after every press of his lips to the heated skin beneath him on his descent.

“Beautiful,” he breathes into his cleavage. Hanzo shudders.

“Gorgeous,” he mumbles, lips suctioning around a dusky nub. Hanzo moans.

“Perfect,” he whispers, dipping his tongue into the valleys of his abdomen. Hanzo trembles.

“Hanzo,” he pleads when he reaches the barrier between fabric and skin. Jesse tilts his head up to look into those watery brown eyes. Hanzo nods.

McCree slips his hands under the waistband, shifting the elastic, and pushes it down slowly. Hanzo raises his hips to help, the fabric slipping down, down, down, until he manages to get it past the joints of his prosthetic knees, and it falls to the floor in a pool of midnight silk embroidered with gold scales. He is not wearing anything underneath. Hanzo’s cock lays hard on his stomach, waiting for contact and attention, but Jesse’s eyes are nowhere near the needy appendage. The gunslinger stares at the scarred skin that decorates the flesh around his angel’s titanium joints. Hanzo hasn’t breathed since the fabric fell to the floor. Jesse’s heart kick-starts when the other man makes a small whining sound in the back of his throat, as if he was embarrassed of his body. One thought stands out in McCree’s mind.  _ I want to worship you. _

Reverential, he bows his head to the other’s legs once more, kissing at the carbon-fiber skin, picking up where he left off earlier. Hanzo’s sharp intake of breath, the hand that falls to card through Jesse’s hair, and the stilted, “you don’t have to do this,” is all the response he gets to his action. He doesn’t deign his complaint with a response, as he moves to press his lips to the rough scarred skin that separates his prosthetics from his skin. He hears a hitched sob come from the man underneath him, a tightening of the fingers in his tawny brown locks, a broken, “ _ Jesse _ ,” hissed from somewhere above him. Hanzo’s hand tightens in his hair, urging him to pull away. He can’t, he  _ won’t _ . He hasn’t finished his prayer.

“I want to,” he whispers, desperate, and the hand in his hair stops pulling. He kisses another scar, dragging his lips up to the middle of his thigh. Jesse leave an open mouthed kiss there, peppering the skin with love well-deserved, all along the width of his muscular thighs. Hanzo lets out another broken noise, a soft sob, and Jesse strokes the skin of his other thigh with his calloused fingertips, soothing his angel as best he can. He parts from the other’s skin for barely a moment, pleading with him, “I need to.”

Hanzo relents, allowing him his chance at redemption. And he takes it, in the form of kisses up his thigh, along the jut of his hip, over across his abdomen. He takes it, with a tongue dipped into his belly button, with an open-mouthed kiss over his pubic bone, avoiding the hardness that bumps at his chin and his chest as he crosses over to the other hip-bone. He takes it, with his lips lighting fires along Hanzo’s other thigh, down the corded muscle, to the end of the second stump, where he laves his tongue along the lightning-strike scars, kissing, healing as best he can. Hanzo is trembling under every touch, violently shaking, his voice tumbling out in murmurs of “please,” and “Jesse,” and “thank you”.

Jesse wonders how an angel can thank someone like him.

He moves his attention to Hanzo’s inner thighs, as he drags his mouth up the sensitive skin, closer and closer to what demands his attention. He wants to suck marks into the unblemished skin of his upper thighs, to paint him in mottled purples, sully the pristine alabaster. He doesn’t. Jesse knows better than to take for granted the gift spread out in front of him, panting, with tears leaking salty streaks down the sides of his face. To take for granted the man who was reaching for his face, the one that was forcibly hauling him up, that was kissing him with desperation, his hardness forgotten between them in favor of swallowing down Jesse’s tongue, would be nothing short of blasphemous.

Hanzo falls away from his mouth, back onto the bed, his hair fanned out around him, and stares up at Jesse in the dim. He follows without prompting. The archer accepts his kiss, as Jesse presses their lips together chastely, before he kisses up to the tear stains on his face. Salty. Hanzo laughs as McCree’s scruff teases his cheek; soft, quiet things that rock his body slightly. Jesse can’t stop the smile that teases at his lips, especially when he pulls back to see Hanzo’s own smile. Warm. heavenly, beautiful. A blessing.

Fingers tug at the buttons on his shirt, a plea in his angel’s warm umber eyes. Denial sits on his tongue, but he knows he can’t, not when he was bared so prettily, all for him. He concedes, letting his angel sit up and deftly undo the buttons, making quick work of the fasteners. With every button undone, he would kiss Jesse again, chaste at first, but slowly morphing into open-mouthed ones, the hint of tongue swiping along his lips, that he returns with the press of his own.

The buttons undone, Hanzo splays his hands on Jesse’s pectorals, a heavenly touch of skin-on-skin that the cowboy almost sobs at. Those calloused palms scratch through the dusting of hair across his chest, up towards his clavicle, then along his shoulders. His button-down slips with every movement of those hands along his skin, as they drag down his shoulders to his biceps, to elbows, to forearms made of flesh and steel. Jesse pulls the garment off the rest of the way, Hanzo’s hands finding his wrists, loosely wrapped around the joints. His angel gently leads them down once more until they’re horizontal on the bed, lips still connected, slotted against each other. One hand abandons his to drag along his hip that has softened with age towards the front of his pants. It presses insistently at the gaudy belt buckle, with Hanzo making an indignant sound into his mouth when Jesse takes the hand, laces their fingers together, and pushes it back against the bed.

Hanzo parts from his lips, breathing ragged, desire coloring his tone. “Want--”

“I know,” Jesse responds in kind, voice not much better, his own breathing raspy in his lungs, “I know.”

He doesn’t undo his belt, does not indulge his angel with such. Instead, he lets his lips wander back to the column of Hanzo’s neck, kissing, distracting him. The contact, the drag of his mouth down his chest again, his pilgrimage to the temple that lies between Hanzo’s legs; it all serves to distract the archer from Jesse’s overdressed state. There is no reason to focus on him, not when his angel deserved so much more attention, that the gunslinger was more than willing to lavish him with. Hanzo’s hands bury in his hair, mussing the strands more than usual, as Jesse places another pious kiss to his pubic bone. He shimmies backwards, placing himself between those spread legs, face-to-face with the velveteen hardness that has been bumping into him insistently for some time now.

It’s strong, hard, and leaking from the tip. The head is dark and gorgeous, pre-come making it shine in the dim light filtering in from the high window on the opposite wall, It’s decently thick, smaller than average, but beautiful nonetheless. Everything about Hanzo is. Jesse rubs circles into the archer’s thigh with his metal hand, the flesh one inching ever closer to the thickness he’s presented with. He can feel his muscles jump under his skin, can hear the ragged breathing coming from above him, sees the way his cock twitches in front of him. A dribble of pre-come spills from the tip, descending down to catch on the pulled-back foreskin, before it overflows and descends down the slightly veiny length.

Jesse wants to taste it, to accept the body of Christ into his mouth. A communion. He glances up to Hanzo’s face, which is dark, likely cherry red, though he can’t tell in the dim, with a question on his lips.

The archer nods vehemently before he can voice it, the breathy way he says, “Jesse, please,” reverberating through him. He shuts his eyes at the sensation, nodding, burning the image of his angel bathed in moonlight and spread out, wanting, needing, into his eyelids. The gunslinger presses a soft kiss to the inside of Hanzo’s thigh, his flesh hand coming up to gently grab the base of Hanzo’s cock. The contact has his archer jerking up into his grip, a soft gasp echoing into the night air. Jesse opens his eyes, leaning in and grazing his lips over the slick head. He breathes against it, feeling it twitch in his grasp. More pre-come wells out of the slit, dribbling down, tantalizing.

Jesse doesn’t let it get very far, his tongue flicking out to catch the salty drop before it can even hit the crown. Hanzo keens, low and needy in the back of his throat, his metal toes scrabbling to find purchase on the slick sheets. The gunslinger presses his lips to the head, kissing it, messing his mouth up with pre. He licks his lips, tasting salt and bitter tang. Different from the crackers they used to pass around at Mass. Better. Jesse rolls his tongue around the head, lapping up as much of the slick as he can. Hanzo’s stilted moan echoes off the walls. Much better.

He presses a soft kiss to the head before traveling down, peppering chaste kisses along the shaft, to the base, and back up again. Hanzo gasps with every press against the overheated, velvet skin, all of which Jesse revels in. With a glance up, and their eyes locked, he opens his mouth and accepts the head inside of him. Hanzo’s head snaps back, his back arching, his hips pushing up, trying to bury himself inside of Jesse’s mouth. The gunslinger swallows him down as best he can, eager to please. He can’t help the slight gag when Hanzo thrusts up a bit too far, hitting the back of his throat unexpectedly.

Jesse pulls back, only a bit, as Hanzo curses and apologizes. He flicks his eyes up, seeing the slight guilt in the archer’s eyes, and shakes his head, quieting the apologies. His angel presses a shaky hand to his lips, the other falling down to card through Jesse’s hair, as he moves down once more. He sucks in a deep breath through his nose, pinching his flesh thumb tightly in his fist, and pushes even further down. The head bumps the back of his throat, but he doesn’t gag this time. The choked moan that he gets in response to his nose being buried in the well-kept thicket of black curls at the base of Hanzo’s cock is more than enough to make up for the slight discomfort of having his angel so deep inside of his throat.

He swallows around the length, his lungs burning from lack of air, and Hanzo’s back arches impossibly further, bending like a bow with the string pulled taut. Jesse hums, the noise vibrating along his thickness. His angel’s hands are both in his hair now, grabbing, pulling, while he babbles in mixed Japanese and English. All Jesse can make out is his own name, and warnings of an impending orgasm. He keeps his eyes on Hanzo’s face the whole time, watching him come undone, with spit-slicked, kiss bruised lips falling open on a moan of his name, and eyes shining with tears of overstimulation. He burns the image into his retinas, determined to never forget a single moment of this night. Not that he could ever forget, with his sins abolished, forgiven by an angel, deemed worthy for once. There’s a weight off his shoulders, alleviated with every sound, every touch, every blessing he’s been given tonight.

Hanzo’s looking at him with adoration, desperation, as Jesse pulls back enough to tongue the leaking slit in his mouth. He moans, keeping their eyes locked together, unwilling to look away for even a moment. McCree releases his cock with an audible pop, his flesh hand wrapping around the length and giving a few tugs. He lets his metal hand fall to the sheets in between Hanzo’s legs, pressing his middle finger teasingly against his entrance. The sensation has Hanzo’s eyes widening, hips snapping down to chase the pressure, while Jesse kisses the head of his wet cock. He swipes his tongue along the slit, twisting his hand at the base on the upstroke, and murmurs loud enough for Hanzo to hear over his heavy breaths and the sound of his hand on Hanzo’s spit-slick cock.

“Come for me, Hanzo,” he croons against his length.

That’s all he needs. The archer throws his head back completely, hips snapping up, balls tightening, and then he’s coming in thick, hot ropes against his abdomen. Jesse watches, entranced, as it settles in the valleys and plateaus of his stomach, mingling with sweat, glistening in the dim light. Enraptured in the way Hanzo’s loud moan echoes in the otherwise silent room. Jesse watches, stroking him through it, helping him ride it out. He continues until Hanzo makes a noise of discomfort, likely overstimulated, and finally lets him go. Hanzo, however, does not let him go, tugging on his hair to get him to come up. Jesse, amused, flicks his gaze up, a smile playing on his lips. The archer lets an uncharacteristic pout cross his features, as his fingers travel down the curve of Jesse’s cheekbone. He leans into the touch, into the warm hand and calloused fingers, exhaling softly at the blessing he’s been given.

“Come here,” Hanzo pleads, demanding, needy.  _ Come here _ , the second time he’s said it today, and McCree still can’t deny him. He crawls up his body, ignoring the rapidly cooling spend that smears between their chests, until they’re face-to-face. He’s smiling, and it reaches his chocolate eyes that Jesse loves so much. Hanzo’s lips are kiss-bruised, bitten, a bright and succulent red-violet that Jesse can’t help but kiss. Slow and sweet, they meet in the middle, with Hanzo smiling against his mouth. Closed, chaste, but supremely satisfying. Jesse wonders what in God’s name he could have possibly done to get them to this point, to get Hanzo to take any sort of interest in him. To want to actually lay with him, to kiss him, to draw patterns into his skin with his fingertips like he was doing now. To bless a sinner like him with his presence, to absolve his transgressions, to give him his chance at redemption. Jesse thanks any deity that will listen for Hanzo Shimada as his angel’s hands wander lower and lower, down his chest, to the waistband of his trousers that are still held up by his belt.

“Don’t,” he breathes against Hanzo’s lips, and he feels those fingers twitch against his abdomen, halting their descent, “y’don’t have to.” His lust, his own desire, both had taken a backseat to Hanzo’s pleasure.

Hanzo pulls back, his brows furrowed, as he grips at the well-worn leather with insistent hands. “I want to,” he grumbles huffily, one hand dropping further to palm at Jesse’s crotch, “you have not come yet, Jesse.”

McCree sucks in a breath, the fire that was forgotten in his belly making itself known once more, as liquid heat burns in his veins. Hanzo seems to like that reaction, as his hand presses harder against the noticeable bulge in his slacks. It takes a lot of willpower, but Jesse grabs Hanzo’s wrist and forces it away from his hardness that has begun to throb with desire where it sits, hard and heavy. “S’not about me,” he says, gruff, strained, “tonight was all about you.”

Hanzo’s eyebrows furrow in confusion, staring up at McCree with soft eyes. He relents, though, and, for that, Jesse is grateful. He brings his hands up to cup his face, callouses catching on the scruff on his chin, his thumbs brushing along the skin under his eyes. Hanzo is searching his amber eyes for something, but Jesse does not know what. He lets them slip shut, breathing out with a shudder. He hears him open his mouth, close it, open again, as if he was debating whether or not he should ask. Jesse makes the decision for him, “spit it out, darlin’.”

He can practically see him roll his eyes, even with his own closed. “Why did you want to,” he pauses, makes a vague noise in the back of his throat, “uh, worship me? What did you mean by that?”

Jesse opens his eyes, staring down at Hanzo, at the moonlight in the apples of his cheeks, the starlight scattered in the umber pools of his eyes, his lips bitten and spit-slicked, glistening slightly in the dim, the smoky salt-and-pepper strands of his hair fanned out behind him in a halo, and wonders how he could possibly ask him that. Why? The answer was so obvious.

“Because,” he breathes out, adoration coloring every syllable, “yer an angel.” A confession falling on holy ears.

Hanzo’s cheeks darken, his brows furrowing in confusion. He averts his gaze, frowning, and even that expression is heavenly, “I am nothing of the sort.”

But, oh, if he only knew that every sound he made is a sermon that washes over McCree and abolishes his sins; if he knew that his mere presence was a balm on wounds that had long stopped festering but were still felt in phantom pains and fever dreams; if he knew that he was McCree’s savior, the closest thing he’s ever found to God, that he led Jesse down the path towards atonement that Gabriel had left off, then he’d understand.

If you don’t call this love, then what is it?

** Simple. It’s worship. **

**Author's Note:**

> HOO BOY THANKS FOR MAKING IT TO THE END THANKS FOR READING IT LEMME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK


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